Winter's Beginning
by kbk
Summary: Sequel to "Summer's End". Complete. Fifth year, waiting for the war to begin. Some R/H, H/G.
1. Harry: comfort in routine

A/N This might take a while to write, by the way.  
  
Also: this is a sequel to Summer's End, so I would suggest you go read it. But if you really hate POVs, well... Previously: everybody's depressed. At the beginning of November, there was a large attack in Hogsmeade. Ginny is one of the survivors. One of those killed was Faber, the DADA professor, who had been giving Harry extra lessons. Hermione and Ron are unofficially together.   
  
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"He said I bore his mark. He said... he said that I was one of his creatures, I just didn't know it yet. That's why they didn't... that's why it was Calum's mother, that's why... He said I was his, he said..." Finally, she breaks down into incomprehensible sobs. The only gap in her account of that day filled in, at last: one week, three days and approximately six hours later.   
  
Calum, six years old, the orphan boy, the only child, is still under the protection of the castle. He has become something of a mascot, for the Hufflepuffs in particular - a cheery little boy, despite being old enough to understand that his parents are gone and will not return. Dumbledore has told certain of the students that Calum shall be adopted, as soon as a suitable home is found; also, that the boy has likely blocked out the memories of that Sunday. They listen, and they tell their friends; and Calum has a bed in the First Year dorm, but every night he creeps out to sit at the top of the Astronomy Tower until Harry finds him, takes him in his arms and carries him back down: using the illicit knowledge gleaned from his co-carers to enter the Hufflepuff wing and replace him in the cot with a nod to whichever of the boys is awake.   
  
The same way, now, that he takes her in his arms and gently rocks her until her sobs subside. He whispers nonsense words into her hair, newly cropped and dyed in what he thinks is a disguise attempt - useless if so, because his mark must be intangible, but perhaps without her glorious tail of bright hair she will be less obvious, less distinctive, less easily recognised by the riff-raff of the Dark Army - and he mourns the loss because it is trivial, and easily remedied. He strokes one hand gently, repetitively down her upper arm, attempting to soothe away the tenseness that has latched her hands firmly to his robes and the trembling that comes in the aftermath of an emotionally draining fit of crying. He wonders if he should wait until she falls asleep, if he could pick her up and carry her through the corridors - she is small and light, still, though she has grown enough that she is evidently not a child. But she calms, and pulls away, wiping her face with her sleeve and apologising quickly for breaking down on him. "We can talk about this later, right? What he meant," she says, and he nods wordlessly. She twists her mouth in what may be an attempt at a wry smile, and turns to walk sharply away.   
  
He shifts to sit cross-legged on the floor, and draws his wand out of one pocket, setting it before him as he starts his meditations. His breathing slows, deliberate, as he blanks his mind of all the death he has seen and been responsible for. A breath in - salty taste of tears; a breath out - sweet memory of summer. A breath in - dusty taste of abandoned room; a breath out - ashes taste of failure. He breathes, and lets the magic flow. A sensitive observing him would, perhaps, witness the energy in the room gradually moulding to his will and the wand almost beginning to lift: before the meditation is broken by the entry of a tall red-haired boy with two school-bags slung over his shoulders.   
  
"Hey, Harry, what did you do to Ginny?" is his opening effort. "We ran into her on the way back from the library - curfew's in ten." He jerks his head towards the door, indicating that they should leave, but Harry remains seated. "I have permission to be out," he states baldly, picking up his wand and running his fingers along the length of it. His friend grins. "Yeah, as long as you're... oh. That what you were doing?" he frowns, uncomfortable. Harry raises an eyebrow in wordless assent. Ron shifts, his frown deepening. "She'll get better, you know," Harry tells him with a sympathetic air. The frown on his friend's face turns to one of concern. "Yeah," he says. "Just wish... No offence, but I wish she'd talk to me." Harry shakes his head ruefully. "C'mon, Ron. You've been spending most of your time with Hermione, and... And this is a Voldemort thing. You know?" Ron snorts in mingled anger and disappointment. "No. That's the point," he states in an exasperated tone. He realises this is unfair, and continues apologetically. "Ah, shit, sorry. Not your fault. Anyway, you may be exempt but I'm under curfew, so I'll be off." He leaves abruptly, not acknowledging the seated boy's brief farewell.   
  
Harry, his concentration broken, does not resume his meditations. Instead, he spends a little time reading yet another of the Dark Arts texts he has acquired from the library, and then gives in to his frustration. He removes his property to the edge of the room, and assumes a fighting stance. One of the more welcome lessons from Faber had been in non-magical combat. True, the stated reason for learning a martial form had been to concentrate his mind, but Harry finds the physical activity a release from the anxieties and fears that plague his life. Moving gracefully through the still-unfamiliar positions, he almost believes he can touch the currents of magical energy that flow through the room; and so, when he comes to the end of the pattern, he sits once more and drops into the meditation. This time, the wand lifts, and he controls its motion for a few crucial moments until he falls back, worn out. Eventually he stands, gathers his belongings, and sets off back to his room.   
  
"What are you doing out after curfew?" the Fat Lady asks him pertly. He runs his hand through his hair impatiently and attempts not to glare at her. "Special permission, remember?" This has virtually become his personal password, as this conversation has been repeated six evenings out of the past nine. She sniffs haughtily, and asks for the password. "Semper fidelis" completes the ritualistic conversation and the door to the Common Room opens. He enters, and walks past the two crop-haired brunettes who are the only occupants. He considers reminding them of the curfew; but as he has only just returned he feels he cannot justify enforcing the rule. The stairs up to his dorm seem longer than ever before, though he knows this is not the case, and he collapses face-first onto his bed when he finally reaches it, not bothering even to remove his shoes. All the other boys are in their beds, but one has the curtains open - Ron, who sits up and leans his elbows on his knees. Eventually, Harry twists himself into a seated position and acknowledges his friend with a glance.   
  
"The girls still down there?" Ron asks quietly, avoiding disturbing any of the others. Harry nods, furrowing his brow slightly as he wonders why Ron cares. "She can talk to Hermione," Ron muses, "and she can talk to you, but she can't talk to her own brother. What's that all about?" "That was them?" Harry asks, dumbfounded. A wary nod from Ron makes him feel like a fool. "I didn't even notice," he spits, disgusted with himself. Ron tries to comfort him by pointing out his exhaustion and the fact that the girls probably would not have welcomed his company.  
  
Harry lies back down, dangling his feet over the edge of the bed to avoid damaging the covers. "Y'know, mate, you're supposed to get changed first," Ron jokes, settling down himself. Harry sighs, and turns his head to look across the gap between their beds. "Got to fetch Calum in an hour or so," he says. "No point." Ron nods at the ceiling. He offers a game of chess, but Harry declines.   
  
They lie there making desultory conversation until just after midnight, when Harry rouses himself to perform his self-appointed duty. He carefully scans the Common Room as he passes through it, but it is deserted. The Fat Lady shakes her head disapprovingly as he exits, but he whispers the name "Calum" and she smiles sadly, for the child has captured the hearts of most of the inhabitants of the castle with his cheerful disposition and tragic story. The other two orphans, now gone to stay with distant relatives in the north of the country, did not inspire this affection - they kept their distance from everybody except each other, the older girl protecting her brother from anyone who approached.   
  
The long walk to the top of the Astronomy Tower is almost enough to drain Harry's reserve of energy, and he does not wonder that Calum is asleep on the floor after the exertion. Being six years old and slightly chubby, the child is not particularly light, but Harry hefts him in his arms and stumbles off to the boy's temporary home. "Esperanza" is the password he gives to the portrait, and this stimulates a memory from the day before - Hermione's outburst on the 'patriotic' nature of the passwords, changed every two days. "All an intruder would have to do would be to try "hope" "faith" and "courage" in a few different languages, and they'd be all set! Does the word "originality" mean nothing to these people?" Harry smiles both at the memory of her indignant expression and the knowledge of the new Gryffindor password - "creation". The portrait frowns back at him, knowing that he does not belong in Hufflepuff, but the child in his arms is token enough to gain entry. Harry finds his way down to the dorm with relief, and sets down his burden with a sigh of gratification. Simon, the boy on watch tonight, raises his eyebrows in question, but a silent shake of the head leaves him tucking in Calum and then himself. Harry trudges back up to the Hufflepuff Common Room, and refuses once more to satisfy his brief twinge of curiosity.   
  
The corridors to his own House seem longer than ever before, and it is indeed possible that they are. Reflexes hide him in the shadows as footsteps round a nearby corner - but they die away, following the prescribed patrol route, marking the owner as a senior prefect. Intellectually, Harry knows that he would be wiser to walk openly, as he is easily recognised and has a permanent hall-pass to further his studies; and the panicked response of a patroller to a mysterious figure in the shadows could easily harm him. But old habits die hard, and he is not yet quite convinced that he will not be punished under this more-strictly enforced curfew.   
  
The reasoning behind the heightened security is, of course, sound - though it seems the Dark Army is heading in a different direction. Three days ago, a Muggle was killed in a village forty miles south of Hogsmeade. It is too early to see if this is the beginning of a trend, but Harry's scar has been hurting less recently. Also, from past form, such a large attack will be followed by a period of regrouping and reflection on both sides. Harry is using this time to work harder than ever before. Only those closest to him suspect the true reason for this - that he can only sleep with a semblance of peace when he is totally exhausted. Others take his determination as a source of comfort, believing that this preparation will serve to defeat the Dark Lord when the time comes. He sees it as a means to an end, yet he avoids contemplation of that end in any way he can, fearing that too-close inspection of the coming duel would cause despair to overwhelm him. Besides, there is enough speculation from wizards and witches all over the world - his must surely be superfluous, no matter that he is far more informed than anybody else.  
  
He knows too much for a fifteen-year-old boy. And so he hoards those precious twilit moments immediately after he wakes, before he remembers who he is and what he must do; when he is merely a boy. But every morning consciousness breaks over him, and he shoulders the burden and carries on with his work.   
  
On Thursdays, as this is, his last class-hour is free. It is his favourite hour of the week. Rationalisations on the part of his friends and himself tell Harry that flying is a very useful skill; and, as such, he has managed to set aside this one hour to practise his broom-skills. People watch him in the air: but people are always watching the Boy Who Lived, and when he is in the air he can pretend that their attention is elsewhere, and he is too far away for his eyes to dispel this illusion. He flies with an easy grace and an unforced style, revelling in the freedom of the air. He enjoys himself.   
  
His sense of duty is too strong for him to allow himself to extend these sessions, however, so at the end of the hour, puts his broom away, and longs for the next week to pass. He returns reluctantly to the earthbound round of classes and meals and practice in the room he has annexed and collecting Calum from the Tower at quarter-past midnight. Still, weary though the routine may already be, he cannot wish for it to end. He is not yet ready for the final confrontation. And everybody knows it. 


	2. Hermione: strength in bonds

A/N Less war, more mush. And while I hate writers blackmailing readers for reviews... yeah, that's what I'm doing. I can't do this without encouragement, people. I'm sorry. Sincere thanks to Erasmas for the sole review of chapter one (which cheered me up no end). If I do decide to cut my losses, I'll round up the plotlines in a final post, 'k?  
  
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Hermione rests her head in her hands, secretly wishing for a hole to open up and swallow her; but quashing the impulse to actually whisper it because the likelihood of it happening is just a little too high for comfort. Beside her, Ron is shifting awkwardly in place, his eyes skittering all around the room, looking at anything except Professor McGonagall. Eventually, the teacher stands, drawing her pupils' attention. "It's almost time for curfew," is all she says. Her reluctant guests stand, gathering their belongings, and exit the office with heads hung low. Her amused chuckles are just loud enough to reach them as they escape down the corridor.   
  
"I can't believe you did that!" Hermione scolds, her embarrassment quickly transmuting to anger. The accusatory tone in her voice puts Ron automatically on the defensive. "We were in that together," he tells her, only barely keeping his voice at a normal volume. He is unprepared for her abrupt change in attitude and melting gaze; having intended only shared blame, he finds he has acknowledged their relationship. He is smart enough not to say this.   
  
They enter the common room on the tail end of the influx of students racing to beat curfew. Having not yet announced their new status to their friends, they stand a small distance apart and part with a brief mutter and no touching. Hermione is relieved to make it to her dorm without seeing Ginny - while she enjoys the company of the younger girl and appreciates their frequent discussions, it can be awkward for her when she remembers that her friend is also the sister of her secret boyfriend. Unfortunately for Hermione, the girls in her dorm are wakeful and gossiping, making a concerted effort to appear normal. Parvati in particular has avoided all mention of the war, channelling her energies into Divination, makeovers and flirting.   
  
Hermione knows that it is not a war - it is closer to terrorism - but she feels distinctly uncomfortable with their attempts to ignore it, and has made several scathing comments to her core group of friends about the "head in the sand" approach that many people are applying. Her own feelings of helplessness are drowned in excessive attentiveness to classwork and extra-curricular research which is probably useless. She knows that she is drowning herself in work to avoid feeling. She knows that she is being unfair to those closest to her, and leaning on Ron to a dangerous degree; but she tells herself she will stop, as soon as she's sorted it all out.   
  
She lies down and covers her head with a pillow, knowing from experience that asking for a cessation of conversation will simply draw their attention and pull her into the discussion. She doesn't want to talk. She just wants to sleep.   
  
In the morning, she wakes to the sound of horrified gasps. She wonders why they were surprised. True, this is only the third time it has happened, but she can see the pattern emerging. It is the only time the fear is acknowledged in this, their sanctuary. Monday morning, another person hurt or dead. There's a mild curiosity in her to know how they managed to use Imperio to kill someone - assuming, correctly as it turns out, that they are working their way through the Unforgivable curses. Lavender tells her. The forced public suicide of an Auror. Last week, it was a family with three Squib children, all placed under the Cruciatus curse. Next week will most likely be Avada Kedavra again, she thinks, and wonders why she isn't more worried about the prospect. It probably has something to do with the fact that the attacks appear to be moving steadily away from Hogwarts, where she is safe. It may also have something to do with shock, she decides.  
  
At breakfast, she sits quietly with her friends; the four of them an oasis of eerie calm while their classmates whisper and panic. Harry greeted her with a simple, "You heard?" and she nodded in return. The last to arrive in the Common Room, she led the way to the Great Hall and directed their seating arrangements. She is at the end of one side of the table, with Harry opposite her for easy surveillance, Ron beside her for comfort's sake, and Ginny cati-corner just to even it up. They do not talk. They barely acknowledge the existence of the outside world. They simply look at each other and take solace in the knowledge that these are true friends.   
  
The group has to split up for classes. Hermione is alone in Arithmancy, and this disturbs her far more now than it ever did before. She thinks, perhaps, that the rest of the school could be destroyed without their noticing. She knows it is ridiculous, but she cannot always control her fleeting thoughts.   
  
In the break between classes, she takes the opportunity to spend a little time with Ron. "We should tell them," she instructs, knowing that he will understand her semi-cryptic statement. He sits, heavily, on the nearest desk. "I suppose you have it all planned out," he says dryly. She matches his tone, and then exceeds it in saying, "Actually, I thought perhaps we could talk about it." He is obviously surprised, and she wonders what that says about them. "We can grab them at lunch?" he tentatively offers, "Take two minutes at the end to have a bit of a talk then we have to split for classes." She picks up on his train of thought with little effort; "Giving them time to get used to it and us a break before we have to defend ourselves - if we do have to." Smiling at her, he reaches to draw her into his arms. "They'll be fine with it, you know," he reassures with a small kiss. The break is over, though, so they reluctantly break apart before walking to their next class, unwilling to be seen touching in public prior to their announcement. He carries her bag, a courtly gesture that makes her smile when he cannot see.   
  
At lunch, the three fifth years enter together and sit in their usual places. It surprises all of them each time they realise that the group they comprised for most of four years no longer satisfies them. Their conversation does not fully relax until fifteen minutes later, when the fourth seat is filled. "Damn," Ginny says as she settles herself, "Snape gets worse every day." Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat and makes an apologetic expression. "He is... you know," he attempts. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean I can't criticise him for holding the whole class back because..." She stops, and acquiesces with a sigh and a shrug. "So what's up with you lot?" she moves on, and grins slightly at the guilty look that flashes between her brother and her best female friend. "Hey, Hermione," she continues, "can you help me trim my hair later? Can't seem to get the back even." Three pairs of eyes automatically turn to the nape of her neck. "It looks fine to me," Harry thoughtlessly compliments, earning a kick under the table from his best friend and a speculative look from both girls. Hermione replies easily, though, and the pair fall into the arrangement of a 'girly evening', leaving the boys to happily discuss sport and other such things that are suitable for boys to talk about.  
  
The joviality cannot be sustained, and they turn to the topic of the attacks sooner rather than later. They choose to place their trust in Dumbledore, and hope that he will find a way to resolve the situation. Harry mentions his godfather and the possibility of his involvement in the plans that are undoubtedly being put into action. Ron reminds him that most of the Weasleys are unlikely to turn away from the fight. Hermione says nothing; but realises that she feels guilty for having only her friends to sacrifice. The subject is uncomfortable for all of them, and they are glad to abandon it at the end of the hour.  
  
As they leave the Great Hall, Ron and Hermione put their plan into action, pulling their friends into a quiet corner. "Um..." one says. "Well," the other continues. The pair of them wince in synchrony and glance desperately at each other. "So you're together then?" Ginny questions with a tone that implies her total lack of surprise. Hermione nods. Harry shakes his head at his own blindness. "Why didn't I notice this?" he asks, finding his reply in the eloquent raising of eyebrows around the group. "So, um..." Ron swallows nervously, "You guys are OK with... this?" Harry opens his mouth to reply, but halts when Ginny lays a hand on his arm. "Let us get back to you on that," she says with an inscrutable expression, and then pulls the dark-haired boy away with her.   
  
Ron sinks back against the wall, dread crossing his face. "They're not," he states dully. Hermione rests next to him, dropping her head against his shoulder. "They really are, you know," she says quietly; "she just wants to make us sweat." With this new angle on events, Ron cheers up. "That little... she's learning," he says with barely restrained pride. Hermione's soft giggles degenerate into a laughing fit for the two of them which only ends when they realise the time and run to their next class.   
  
Later, Hermione forgoes her usual pre-dinner research in favour of a friendly chat in the corner of the Common Room, and revels in her newfound freedom to indulge herself in leaning against her acknowledged boyfriend. Ginny's teasing disapproval lasted about two minutes - as long as it took her to realise that the couple had been sure of her true opinion. Harry, of course, is not there. His absence is regretted, but it is part of what is now normal. The fact that he is working harder than any of them are causes the odd twinge of guilt, but it is his cause that he is working for and it is his fear that is the driving force.   
  
He meets them at dinner, and talks with them for a while, updating them on the progress he has been making, both working alone and under the tutelage of various of the Professors. In turn, they keep him grounded with stories of class tests and inter-house pranks. The unsettling age in his gaze recedes when he laughs, quiet though his chuckles may be. He is forced to leave by a prior appointment, and once he exits the Hall his friends have another topic of discussion open to them.   
  
"So," Ron says, "is he worse now?" Ginny rakes her fingers through her hair and glances up at her brother. "He's driven," she demurs, "but he's not obsessed." Hermione nods in agreement and places a reassuring hand on Ron's arm. "He wants to prevent more deaths, but he's realistic about his prospects," she tells him. Looking at the resolved expressions on the girls' faces, Ron accepts defeat. "I'm still worried about him," he says with a defiant hint of aggression. His statement is quietly accepted as truth, and they attempt to move on to another, less emotional topic.   
  
Later, Hermione lies wakeful in bed and wonders how many others are in the same condition. Her roommates are all sleeping peacefully - the quiet rasp of their placid breathing echoes around the dorm, broken only by an occasional mutter from Parvati, who talks in her sleep now. It's probably stress. Harry is most likely awake and working - he doesn't sleep much at all these days, and it shows in the shadows beneath his eyes and lines around his mouth. Ron tells her that he stays up later than he used to, just waiting until his dorm has its full complement of inhabitants; so he's probably asleep, passed out as soon as Harry entered the room. Ginny doesn't talk about her sleeping habits.   
  
They wake up slowly over toast and cereal, purposefully ignoring the glances they all seem to draw. Today, Hermione and Ron are in for the most scrutiny, as they sit just a little too close together after walking in with his arm around her shoulders. The attention on Ginny and her lucky survival - the mysterious circumstances are far from well publicised, with only her close friends and a few adults trusted by Dumbledore knowing the whole story - has died down in the weeks following the attack. Harry walks in late from an early morning tutorial with Professor Flitwick, receiving the standard group sneer from the Slytherin table and admiration from elsewhere.   
  
"You look wrecked, mate," is Ron's tactless greeting, which earns him two quick kicks from two different directions. Harry nods as he sits and almost smiles; before leaning forward with a conspiratorial gesture. "They think," he starts, and winces slightly at his too-loud voice. "They think," he murmurs, "that the Mark," he indicates Ginny, "is to do with what happened three years ago." His expression implies that this is of momentous consequence, and Ron nods with a look of dawning realisation. The girls look at each other in disbelief, then simultaneously push away from the table and stalk out in disgust.   
  
"I cannot believe," Ginny spits as soon as the door closes safely behind them, "that they... sweet Merlin, what else could it have been?" Hermione, slightly more levelheaded, guides her friend to a quieter spot. "I know," she mutters, equally indignant, "I would have talked to them about it if I'd thought they were daft enough not to bloody well see!" Ginny drops her bag and sighs heavily. "They're not stupid," she continues in a calmer tone, "and I guess they've had other things to think about, but honestly! Voldemort says I'm... you know, and when did I have dealings with him? In the diary. It's obvious." Hermione giggles suddenly. At the strange look she receives, she explains: "I just realised they probably don't know why we stormed out, either." Ginny smiles fondly to take the sting out of her confirming "Idiots."   
  
They part to go to their separate classes, and Hermione mentally adds an investigation of the process of creating that diary to her research list, heart dropping as she realises that this extra project will take up the small amount of free time she has left. Ron will understand, she tells herself. He might even help, because it's his sister in danger. And it's all in a good cause. It might just win them the not-quite-war. She enters the classroom, sits, and forces the thoughts out of her conscious mind. She works. 


	3. Ron: growth in knowledge

A/N Hmm, will I work for one review per chapter? I think I might. But it'll be damn slow, because I took a look at my homework today and I didn't understand word one of it. So, y'know... quantum comes first.  
  
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There is a notice on the door, when they go down to dinner. It announces another Yule Ball, to be held on the twenty-first - the Solstice. Unfortunately, Ron isn't fast enough to stop his first reaction spilling into the air: "Not another stupid ball!" Hermione stares at him in disbelief before stalking ahead and sitting in Harry's usual seat. Ginny sits next to her with a pointed glare at Ron, and directs Harry into the seat opposite Hermione with a brief nod. Bemused, Ron sits next to his best friend and whispers a question: the reply to which is yet another silent look. The group all eat quickly and in total silence. Three of them rise and go, leaving Ron sitting at the table, alone and still confused.   
  
Later, they all meet in the common room. Ron, being the fairly intelligent boy he is, has, after observing the glowing faces of several girls on being asked to go to the Ball, worked out what his mistake was. He has a plan. He has not confided this in anybody else.   
  
The meeting has been scheduled for three days, as they rarely meet outside classes and meals. They all have their own agendas, though Ron's seems to be less packed than that of the others, and he feels slightly inadequate because of this. But due to the awkwardness of arranging it, none of them feel able to avoid it because of the new tension in the group. The other three are ranged along a couch as Ron approaches, and he sets himself on the floor at their feet. He looks at each of them, then drops his eyes. "So?" he says.   
  
"I've been doing a little more research," Hermione tentatively offers, and Ron heroically restrains a snort at her understatement. "I'm still concentrating on the diary thing, but it looks like it was his own twisted brand of Dark magic - I can't figure it out. The only other thing I've managed to make any progress on is the lists of known collaborators last time around; and it's not like Dumbledore won't already have a much more up-to-date version. Sorry." Ron reaches forward to place a reassuring hand on her knee, but pulls back. Ginny takes up the slack with a quick lean against her friend, and then gives her report. "Not much here, either. Half the Slytherins are being arses, as usual, and everybody suspects Snape, as usual. Ron?"   
  
He leans back on his hands and shakes his head ruefully. "The last attack confirmed the pattern we worked out. They're cycling between Muggles, Squibs, people in the fight and Muggle-borns. Using each Unforgivable in turn. Sometimes killing, sometimes not - doesn't seem to be a pattern there, which makes sense if you think about the increased fear from the unpredictability. Moving south fairly quickly - London by Christmas, I'd say."   
  
"London at Christmas," Harry picks up, "or maybe New Year. Next big attack. That's what they're predicting." At this statement, Ron looks up with an expression of disbelief. "And how long have they been predicting this?" he says with more than a touch of anger. Harry looks sheepish. "Um... a while? I wasn't supposed to tell anyone." Now the group is aligned against him instead of against Ron - this kind of secrecy is worse than mere male stupidity, and has more consequences. "So," Ron challenges, "while I was working on that and, God help me, researching it - you already knew what the answers were?" Harry's dropped head does away with the need for words. Ron stands, and walks away to cool off.   
  
When he returns, the three of them are chatting fairly comfortably, and he feels a brief flash of resentment at the way they tense up when he joins them. He doesn't want to cause trouble. He doesn't want to be yet another reason for their anxiety. He doesn't want to miss the obvious things and feel completely stupid. He flops back down on the floor, and looks at them inquisitively.   
  
"Harry's not going to keep secrets any more," his sister tells him. The boy in question nods in affirmation, and Hermione avoids his gaze. "All right then," Ron says. "Anything else I should know? And what the hell am I supposed to work on now?" Blank faces abound, but Hermione's quickly clears. "Weren't you working on... that thing?" she says, inclining her head slightly. Ron nods in confirmation as the others look on, waiting for clarification that is not forthcoming.   
  
After a few moments, Harry speaks up: "What thing?" Encountering averted gazes, he tells them that if he isn't allowed secrets, they aren't either. Ron shrugs, acknowledging the point, and tells them he's been looking at specific threats to Harry. "It's been on the back burner a while," he says, "since I've been analysing the attacks. The more recent ones are easier, though, since at least they're admitting it's Voldemort these days: so I'll keep a chart going just for us. Anyone got anything to add?" They all shake their heads, and the 'official' part of the meeting draws to a close.   
  
Normally they would now start chatting about the events of the previous few days: classes, classmates and things of little consequence. Harry makes a gallant effort, but Ginny is unusually quiet and the other pair are studiously avoiding any kind of contact. They are sitting in awkward silence when Colin leans over the back of the couch. "Hey, Ginny," he says, "haven't seen much of you lately. You don't look too good." She turns and raises an eyebrow at him, and he backtracks. "Not that you don't look nice, you've just... looked healthier." She laughs a little, and asks him: "Who hasn't, these days?" He nods wearily, and glances around the room. They exchange a few more sentences before Colin leaves to sit and study with a couple of his classmates. "I'm so glad he stopped following me around," Harry says, which statement is received by a derogatory snort from both of the Weasleys. "He's right, you know," he continues, "you do look tired." He coughs nervously. "Not that I'm one to talk, I know." Ginny stands quickly, telling them she's fine, and leaves for her room. Hermione follows without a word. Ron shrugs at his remaining friend, and heads off, leaving Harry sitting alone and slightly chagrined.  
  
Ron sits in a corner of the Owlery, composing a message and putting more effort into it than he has into some of his essays. "Dear Hermione," it reads. "I'm really sorry about earlier - I didn't think before I spoke. I feel like a total idiot. I didn't mean to upset you. I never do, but I always seem to manage it, being as I'm a bit of an insensitive prat. The reason I wasn't happy about the Ball is that last year's was a bit of a low point for me, mostly because we fought, and you went with Krum. I just couldn't admit that it upset me because I hadn't admitted to myself that I liked you. In fact, I think I can now admit to a definite more-than-like. So... I would like to go with the Ball with you. I'll even wear those awful dress robes of mine for you, and I don't see what more you could ask. (I'm joking, by the way. I'll do whatever you want.) Please. I'm sorry. Ron." He isn't quite happy with it, but it is urgent, so he ties it to Hedwig's leg and urges her to carry it to the girl's dorm window. She gives him a scornful look, but eventually consents to carry it in return for a couple of treats. He watches her fly off, and waits until she returns before he leaves, hoping for the success of his plan.  
  
He returns to the Tower and his dorm room. Unusually enough, Harry is also there, reading one of the advanced texts he has been handed in order to further his magical education. He looks up when Ron enters, adding to the suspicion that he has been waiting for his friend. Said friend does not explain his absence or even greet Harry. He simply flops down on his bed and stares at the ceiling.   
  
"You're going to have to sort it out," Harry offers some minutes later. "We can't afford to be fighting among ourselves." He doesn't look up from his book at all, and so he misses the look Ron gives him - a mix of comprehension and ironic acceptance. "It's sorted," Ron says, "or I hope it is. And you're one to nag, with your secrets and all." At this, Harry does look over at the redhead, whose eyes are once more turned concentratedly upwards. "I already apologised for that," the darker boy says warily. "Not to me," comes the reply. Harry nods. "Then I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Ron. I'm sorry I put you to extra work."   
  
"It's not the work that's the problem, so much," Ron tells him, gaze contemplative on the ceiling. "It's more that I could have been doing other things that might actually have helped." The "you" on the end is left unsaid, but both of them know it is there. "I didn't keep it from you because... I mean..." Harry struggles for words, but Ron does not attempt to fill them in for him - does not even look at him, because sometimes it's easier to talk that way. He eventually settles on: "I didn't want to upset the girls." Ron sniggers slightly, glances over at his friend and looks away again before he starts laughing hysterically. "They're tougher than we are, mate," he says once he has himself under control again. "Honestly, Harry. If you can cope with it, they can."   
  
He sobers completely when Harry doesn't reply, and looks over to find that he has stolen the trick of looking fixedly away. Ron waits. At length, Harry says, in a shamed voice, "I'm not sure I can." Ron takes his time, considering his response thoroughly before settling on, "Well maybe if you shared the load," in a not-entirely-serious tone. This time, their laughter is not repressed, and it rings around the dorm and out onto the stairs.  
  
The next morning, Ron is disappointed to see that both the girls are missing from the breakfast table, and though he feels one absence more keenly than the other, he worries about his sister as well. He has never entirely forgiven himself for not taking better care of her when she was new to the school, and for ignoring her all too often in the years since. When the owls come, an unfamiliar one drops a letter at his place, and he feels an instant of panic before he recognises the handwriting on the front. It is Hermione's, and his heart sinks as he prepares to open the note. Harry notices his friend's preoccupation, and neatly steals the envelope away from him, opening it and pulling out the contents in one smooth move. He glances at the page, and tosses it in front of Ron.   
  
Ron looks at it, bracing himself for the bad news, to find only a few words. "Apology accepted. You're not all that bad. Good morning." He reads it twice, then looks blankly into space. "Good morning?" he queries the air. "Good morning," replies Hermione as she sits down next to him. He smiles at her, and gently knocks his foot against hers - one of the items on her list of physical contacts acceptable in totally public situations such as this. She smiles back, and leans against him for a moment - unacceptable behaviour, but so brief it barely counts. They relax and eat breakfast.  
  
Later, when he is attempting to construct a chart and she is occupied again with her increasingly esoteric research, the worries begin to creep back into Ron's mind. It occurs to him that, while they have publicly announced their relationship and spent a large amount of time together, this will be their first official date. He thinks there should be flowers. And possibly new robes. He decides that he should ask Harry's advice, though how that will help when they are, to all intents and purposes, equally clueless about such things, he doesn't quite know.  
  
Harry wanders in at two o'clock in the morning, and lazily begins to strip off. Ron whistles under his breath, and gets a dirty look and an emphatic swear for his trouble. Harry settles down in bed, turning to face the other boy. "Can I ask... um... never mind," he mutters. "What?" Ron challenges in a whisper. "Just... since you and Hermione are going together, wouldn't it make sense for me to ask Ginny, so we could stay together?" Harry suggests. Ron thinks about it for a second, then easily accepts the idea. "Make sure though," he warns, "she knows it's just a friends thing. I mean, it's not like she still fancies you, but..." Harry keeps his opinion of this statement to himself, and merely nods knowingly.  
  
"Actually wanted to ask you something," Ron continues. "Don't know what I'm supposed to do for a date." Harry gapes in disbelief, snickers twice, then composes himself enough to reply, "And you think I do?" This time, they manage to hold back from another laughing fit out of consideration for their sleeping dorm-mates. It occurs to both of them that they haven't laughed this much in a while. It also occurs that the laughter has been self-mocking, hysterical and most likely due to the excessive stress they are under.   
  
Neither of them speaks up, or follows the train of thought any further. They're laughing and they're safe and they're happy for tonight. And that's enough. 


	4. Ginny

I can't believe it took me so long, but I just… didn't want to write it, and it was mostly done in two bursts of creativity – I wrote almost the entirety of the dance in a few hours tonight. I was also supposed to be studying – just got my exam results, which were passes, but fairly crappy – and then there was this whole thing with me being depressed, and there was christmas and family and… yeah.

This was supposed to be longer, and it wasn't supposed to go like this and it wasn't supposed to be the final chapter, but it isn't and it does and it is and I'm the author so, y'know, there you go. 

Whoever my last reviewer was (computer and ff.net are conspiring to stop me checking) – the version of Summer I'm posting at sugarquill is slightly revised, and when that's done I'll reload here, or something. I may also extend this before I post it there, but I don't know. 

Thanks for reading.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

She wakes suddenly, gasping out her fear. It is early. She sits up and looks around the dormitory at the slumbering forms of her classmates. She could probably go back to sleep if she tried hard enough; instead she picks up a book from the floor beside her bed and begins to read. 

At breakfast, she keeps her head down and her mouth shut. The talk all around is of the Solstice Dance that will start in a few short hours, but Ginny cannot muster any enthusiasm. She has a pretty golden dress and she's going with Harry, and a few years ago this would have been a dream for her. But the dress is second-hand and taken in, and the date is merely as friends, and she is suddenly very tired. She could tell this to her fourth-year friends and garner some sympathy, though more likely they would tease her for being over-excited. She could tell this to the three, as she still thinks of them, and they would look sympathetic, but Harry has it worse and so does Ron, probably, and she would feel like a whiny little brat. It is an effort for her, sometimes, to behave the way she knows she should. 

It can be frighteningly easy, though, to slip into the skin of the girl she never was, to pass herself off as one of the crowd. Normal, perhaps slightly on the cute side, with no obvious distinguishing features, small and slight and easily overlooked. She finds that she likes being a brunette. It's possible to pretend she isn't a Weasley, with generations of family history to live up to and the expectations of brothers and parents and other relatives resting on her delicate shoulders. Her name shouldn't be Ginny, she thinks. Perhaps she could be Mary instead, a Muggle-born, an only child, with divorced parents and three dogs at her father's house because her mother is allergic. Mary wouldn't have to settle for hand-me-down textbooks because there wouldn't be anyone to hand them down. Mary wouldn't have a pathetic crush on a boy who only looked twice at her because of her brother. Mary wouldn't have nearly lost her soul to another boy's essence infused in a diary because nobody would have thought to give the accursed thing to Mary in the first place. 

She spends most of the morning reading, sitting peaceably in a corner with Hermione. The older girl is studying, of course, but Ginny is happy to relax with a novel and a glass of orange juice. The novel she has is, in fact, on loan from Hermione, and Ginny has already read it once through. She cannot admit to that, however, without revealing the hours she spends distracting herself when she is supposed to be sleeping. So she reads it for the second time, and is perfectly happy to do so. Hermione has good taste in these matters; at least, in the recommendations she chooses to make. Ginny wouldn't mind being Hermione instead of Mary. She's not too far off from the ideal. But then she would have to spend a lot of the time snogging her own brother, so that's probably a bad idea.

Later, she is one of the only girls left in the Common Room – the rest of them have already started primping and preparing for the big event in the evening. Even Hermione has left to wash her hair, and so Ginny is a little surprised when someone sits down next to her. It turns out to be Harry. "Looking forward to the dance?" he asks, and suddenly she is crying. She feels slightly guilty for confusing the poor boy so, but mostly she is relieved that she can finally let go of the fear. 

Eventually, she calms. Harry has one arm around her shoulders, and is gazing at her with eyes full of concern. She gives him a wan smile, intended to reassure, and he squeezes her a little closer. "I guess you want to know what that was about," Ginny says, and Harry nods with an expression that says something along the lines of, "well, duh." She takes a few more moment to craft her explanation more quickly, then begins. "I've been having dreams," she says. "Not like yours, of course, but they're about him. The way I knew him, though, in first year. And, uh, they're all the same." She pauses, swallows, and continues. 

"I'm sitting in the Great Hall, and it's at the ball, tonight. Everybody's waltzing round the floor, and I'm just sitting waiting. Then Tom walks over and asks me to dance, and I take his hand. Then all of a sudden we're in the middle of the floor, and I look at the people and they're all dead, and as soon as I realise that…" she sniffs back more tears, determined to reach the end of her tale. She whispers, "we're dancing on your corpses. And he's kissing me. And I'm happy." Harry guides her head down to lean on his shoulder, and holds her close. They sit, quietly. Together. 

It is hard for her to push the images away as she walks into the Hall that night, but Harry stays close by her side, protective. He is flanked by Ron and Hermione, and the four of them make a grand entrance. She feels disapproving eyes upon her and laughs instead of cringing – how can the girls who wish they were in her place hope to intimidate her, when she has been face-to-face with the Dark Lord? 

They are a joyful company for a few hours, separating rarely. She smiles approvingly when Ron asks Hermione to dance, having kicked him in the shins more than once and reminded him the day before that he knew how to dance and he knew that it would please his girlfriend. Still it surprises her when Harry stands and extends his hand to her, pulling her out on the floor to whirl alongside her friends and family. 

She dances with her brothers and she dances with Harry and then, when she is happy, when she is standing by the wall leaning comfortably into Harry's embrace, it happens. A pull behind her navel, a little like a portkey, and she knows that something terrible is about to happen and she is powerless to stop it. And then she is rising, moving away from the safety of his arms, hearing the cries of those around her and not caring in the slightest. 

He is there for her, and her alone.

"Ginny, my dear," he says. He is the same as he was three years previously, and she cannot comprehend how he has come for her. Her eyes drink him in – her Tom – his black hair and tall frame, the robes of velvet night that drape around him, the small smile on his lips that tells her just how much he feels for her. His hand is outstretched for her, and she reaches out, placing her small hand delicately in his… and all hell breaks loose.

She pays no attention to the screams of her classmates as Death Eaters pour in the doors. The crackle of curses and thud of bodies falling passes her by as Tom – her Tom! here! – enfolds her in his arms. Her name, cried in the voice of the boy she loved in her other life, does not touch her as they start a slow waltz step, dancing on the air in truth. They are wrapped up in each other, she and Tom. They are true soulmates. She cannot help but love him when he did so much to – for – her, and he cannot help but love her when she has given him so very much. They dance, in such a dream, and he is her and she is him and they are one and there is nowhere on this earth that she would rather be.

But then she looks down, and she sees Ron sprawled on the floor, blood matting his hair yet another shade of red. And she screams. 

Tom steps away from her, looking her in the eye. "What is it, my lovely?" he asks her, sincerely concerned. She looks back at him. She sees him. "I thought…" she falters. "Hold me," she requests. He smiles gently, and pulls her lovingly against his chest. She pulls his wand out of his pocket, and pushes him away. "Ginny?" he asks, love and worry for her radiating from his eyes, "what are you doing?" She smiles sadly. "What are you doing, Tom? Why are you hurting all these people?" He frowns. "I thought you understood." He reaches out, softly touching her cheek. "Don't you see it, Ginny?" he asks. "I see," she replies. And she points his wand at his heart. And she kills him. 

Later, when the remnants of the Death Eaters are no longer a threat, Harry comes to her where she is huddled on the floor in the centre of the Hall. "You loved him," he says. She nods. "You killed him," he says. She nods again. "Hermione's with Ron in the Hospital Wing. He'll recover," he says. She nods again. "Thank you," he says. She looks up at him. She shakes her head. He kneels down with her, and holds her as she cries. 

In time, she knows, they will all recover. But right now, her heart is breaking. She cries. 


End file.
